Faking It (8 page)

He lunged and snared her again, spinning her into his arms with every intention of dunking the little wretch again. But when she wrapped her arms around his neck, her laughter washing over him, he forgot everything. The waves. His promises. Everything but her.

And he kissed her.

She opened to him as if she’d been made for him. They floated together, the ebb and flow of the tide pushing them against each other until she wrapped her legs around his hips and he fell into the weightless warmth that lifted him up more than the waves. She’d wanted to thank him, she’d said—but he was ever grateful to her for this moment, breathless and taut, that made his heart beat like a savage piston.

He held her tight, her naked skin beneath his hands, her mouth an endless well of heat and sweet, bright emotion that he drank of ravenously. Once he’d tasted her, he had to have her.

And he didn’t want to ever let her go.

Chapter Eight

Friday night. Stephanie looked at herself in the mirror and fussed with every tiny wrinkle in her knee-length dress. She’d bought the midnight blue silk because it brought out her eyes, and the matching blue heels promised killer legs. Emphasis on “killer.” She’d probably break a shin in these heels, and take Derek down with her.

Derek. She pressed her fingers against her lips. She could still taste that kiss, and her disappointment that it had been the only one. They’d played in the waves all evening, then sprawled out on their towels to rest. Stephanie had fallen asleep, and woken to find him watching her so closely it was like being kissed all over again—as if he was inside her, touching her without ever needing to lay a finger on her.

Stephanie smiled to herself and collected her purse. Tonight would be perfect. She’d wanted to give something back to Derek—something to thank him for playing along, and helping her out of the downright clusterfuck Rodgers had dropped her into. She owed him more than just a day on the beach. Dinner might cramp her bank account a little, but it would give her a chance to do something for him for a change…and what better way than a night out, immersed in Miami’s rich culture? He’d said his mother was Puerto Rican, and she could only hope he’d enjoy an evening savoring the local Latin flavor. Maybe…just maybe it might bring up good memories of his mother, and help to ease the tension that seemed to plague him any time his family came up.

Oh, who was she kidding? After that kiss…tonight was just an excuse to see him again, even if she knew that made her a fool.

She checked her phone. Ten missed calls from that unlisted number that could only be Aaron, the last one over two hours ago. He’d finally given up. Or was currently controlling a military drone fighter on its way to assassinate Derek.

A knock sounded. She smoothed her dress over her thighs and answered the door with a smile.

“Not dead yet,” she said. “That’s a good sign.”

Amusement flitted through his gaze. “More threats from Aaron?”

“Wouldn’t know. Ignoring my voicemail.” She gave herself a moment to take him in. His black suit and white shirt were impeccable as always, sitting perfectly on his broad shoulders and fitting neatly to his narrow hips, but for once he’d left his hair wild, black locks curling about his ears and falling into his bright blue eyes. He looked devilish. He looked dangerous. Like the man under the stiff social rules was finally starting to break free, and neither of them would be able to predict what would happen when he finally shook off his shackles.

She took a deep breath and stepped back. “Come in.”

He stepped past the threshold, unsmiling as always, yet his eyes told another story. “You clean up fairly well,
bella
.”

“The phrase is ‘you don’t clean up half bad,’ you psychotic stuffed shirt.” She grinned and leaned against the wall. “Have I ever told you I love your accent?”

He cocked a brow. “I didn’t realize I still had one.”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

He shrugged, but his shoulders were tight, his hands too deliberately still at his sides. “…because my father did his best to beat it out of me. I’d thought he’d succeeded.”

Beaten. Her heart wrenched, and she only hoped he meant that metaphorically. She knew he didn’t speak to his father anymore, but had no idea it ran so deeply. “Derek, I’m—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry.” His jaw clenched. His eyes were flinty. “It’s part of who I am. Nothing more. I shouldn’t have even told you.”

She swallowed back her reply. It wasn’t
nothing more.
It mattered. “Yes, you should have. There’s no reason to keep it to yourself. That’s what friends are for. Talking and listening and sharing.”

His gaze darkened. He touched her cheek, brows knitting as he lingered on her face. “Is that what we are? Friends?”

“In private, yes.” She forced a smile. “In public, we’re the greatest love story ever told.”

He said nothing, but his mouth tightened. His thumb caressed her lower lip, leaving it sensitized and pulsing. She reached up and clasped his wrist. His eyes cleared, and he dropped his hand away.

“I brought you something,” he said.

His hands were empty. She frowned. “You did?”

“There’s a plot hole in our story.”

She licked her lips. “…what plot hole?”

“We’re engaged.”

She frowned. “Technically, yes.”

He captured her left hand and lifted it to eye level. “No ring.”

“Oh. Crap. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I hadn’t either, until last night.” He held fast to her hand; his other hand slipped into his coat pocket and withdrew a ring. Diamond. Enormous, and blindingly cut until it glittered with every hint of light from her overhead lamps. “Problem solved. I had to guess your ring size, but it should fit.”

Her throat dried like she’d swallowed a tumbleweed. “Tell me that’s fake.”

“Will it make you feel better if I say that?”

She curled her hand into a fist. She couldn’t let him put that ring on her finger. “Yes. But it’s not, is it?”

“No.”

“I can’t wear that thing.” It was gorgeous. It was massive. It was too damned expensive. “It must be worth a fortune.”

“Hardly so much as that.” He gently pried her ring finger loose. “Relax. It’s only for show.”

“Then why did you buy a real one?”

“Why would Bruce Wayne buy the love of his life a cubic zirconia?”

He slid the ring onto her finger. The metal was cool, but quickly warming to her body heat. The stone was a tangible weight that would take some getting used to.

“No one would know.” She curled her hand back into a fist. Her fingers didn’t close quite right, the presence of the ring unfamiliar. “I wouldn’t have told anyone.”

“Anyone who knows diamonds can spot a fake. Besides, cubic zirconia is not my style.” He stepped back with a shrug. “You can return it later, if you want. I’ll sell it back to the dealer and donate the money to charity.”

She took a shaky breath and rested her hands on his chest. “I love it. I do. I just feel bad that you spent so much on a lie. It’s not right.”

He tipped his chin up with his finger. “I spent that much on you because I wanted to.”

“O-oh.” Articulate. Smooth. That was her. “Um.” Another winner.

His fingertip slowly traced along the line of her jaw. “Just say you’ll wear it.”

She closed her eyes. Why did he have to make this feel real? What was he playing at? She made herself look at him. Made herself say “Yes,” even if her voice shook. But she could barely stop herself from rising up on her toes and kissing him softly, a mere brushing of lips. “Thank you. I love it.”

“You’re welcome,” he murmured huskily. For a moment his hands gripped her hips, his grasp almost…possessive, before it fell away. “Are you ready to go?”

“Sure.”

He opened the door for her. “Where to?”

She snagged her purse from the table and made herself remember how to walk. She felt disproportionately weighted, dragged to the left, her hand heavy. “We’re going—”

She hooked her toe on the leg of the coffee table and tripped. Derek caught her, his reflexes quick. One more time and this would be a pattern. He lifted her upright. They stared at each other for a moment, Stephanie’s heart a crazed bird struggling to break free from the cage of her ribs, before they both broke away.

“Um.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “As I was saying…we’re going to a nice little Mexican place called Talavera. Do you like Mexican?”

His grip tightened on the doorknob. “Sure,” he said tonelessly. “Sounds fine.”

She cocked her head. “Would you rather go somewhere else?”

“No.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I just…haven’t really indulged much in Latin food since my mother died. My father was serious about culturally whitewashing me. Anything even remotely Hispanic…Mexican, Puerto Rican, Cuban, even Brazilian…he didn’t want any part of it.”

Somehow she wasn’t surprised. She tried a smile. “Maybe it’s about time…? I tried to find a Puerto Rican restaurant, but the Internet wasn’t much help on that front.”

His brows knit, creasing a line over the bridge of his nose, before his face smoothed into careful neutrality. “It’s fine,” he said.

She was fairly sure it wasn’t. She’d been an idiot for assuming. Thinking a half-Puerto Rican would automatically like Mexican food was like assuming all Sicilians liked Italian ravioli, when she’d rather swallow a cannoli whole than eat one bite of those vile bloated pasta squares—even if she was an oddity in her boisterous Sicilian family. She’d still made a stupid, culturally insensitive mistake, and he probably hated her now.

Once again, she’d managed to trip over her feet—and this time lodged one firmly in her mouth.

As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, he offered her his arm. He remained grave and unsmiling, but at least looked a little less tense. That counted for something, right? She curled her hand into his elbow.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was dumb of me. I was trying to…I don’t know. Do something to thank you for how much you’ve helped me. We can go somewhere else. Seriously. I don’t want to upset you.”

“I know what you were trying to do,” he said softly. “And I do appreciate it. Let’s just go. Enjoy dinner for what it is. No baggage. No…what did you call it? ‘Daddy issues.’”

“That sounds fair.” She leaned into him. Her ring dug into his side, and he winced.

“Maybe I should have chosen the round cut, instead of princess.”

She laughed. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he said, and this time she thought he might mean it. He glanced down at her hand. “It looks better on you than I expected. You should keep it.”

She swallowed. The thing had to be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. “Not happening.”

“I don’t see why not. It was a genuine gift.” He shrugged. “You could sell it, if you don’t want to keep it. Use the money for—”

She smacked his arm. “I’d never sell it.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”
Because you gave it to me.
She tucked her hair behind her ear and looked straight ahead. “Selling it is just wrong. It’s…it’s mercenary.”

His hand covered hers on his arm. “You’re one of a kind,
bella
.”

“So Aaron says every time I piss him off.”

He paused and lifted her chin. “I’m starting to think you use humor to deflect. You’re not so different from me, Stephanie. I hide my emotions behind silence. You hide yours behind a smile and flippant irreverence.”

Her heart pounded in her ears. “What do you think I’m hiding?”

“I don’t know.” He dipped closer, leaning down as if he might kiss her. “But I intend to find out.”

She swayed into him, tipping her face up to his—but he withdrew, and guided her down the sidewalk with a hand on the small of her back. The rest of the walk was filled with electric silence, and after a few steps, she slipped her hand into his, their twined fingers swinging between them.

Now and then his thumb stroked over the ring, and her heart fluttered like the beat of a thousand dragonfly wings. She tried to tell herself it was only for show, but tonight there was no one watching them.

There was only him watching her, the moonlight silvering his blue eyes until they glowed.

The restaurant was a blaze of color and music, Southwestern décor in painted adobe shades and geometric patterns complemented by colored hanging lights. They were seated immediately, and the waitress took their drink orders. Stephanie thought soda might be a better idea tonight, after her tipsy wavering in front of Wheeler. After handing out menus, the waitress left them in privacy. Stephanie ran her finger over the rim of her glass and watched Derek from beneath her lashes. He was still tense, his jaw as hard as forged steel.

She exhaled. “There’s a French bistro two doors down.”

“I’m fine.” Always fine, even when his stone-hard face said otherwise. He tapped his fingers restlessly on the menu. “I’m just trying to decide what I want.”

“You can never go wrong with a burrito.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

The waitress returned, and Stephanie ordered a chicken enchilada. Derek ordered the same. The waitress smiled at him and said something in Spanish.

His eyes hardened. “I don’t speak Spanish.”

The waitress gave him an odd look and left. Stephanie took a sip of her coke and watched him over the rim of the glass. “You don’t?”

“I don’t,” he repeated very firmly, “speak Spanish.”

She blinked. His tone stung deeper than she wanted to admit. “Why do you have an accent if you don’t…?”

“Drop it.”

She gritted her teeth. “Fine.”

He sighed and pressed his fingers to his temples. “My apologies. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t, yes.” She frowned. “You spoke Spanish a few days ago. You said…um…
kay bellies
. I think.”

“
Que belleza,
” he corrected, and averted his eyes. “I do speak Spanish. I choose not to. I wasn’t allowed to.”

She bit her lip. “Your father again?”

“Yes.”

“Well…well, your father’s a poop!”

The words were out before she could stop them, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, her face so hot she felt dizzy. A poop? Really? Was she five?

He stared at her, then burst into that rich, hearty laughter that could stop her heart. His eyes crinkled at the corners, their blue so much brighter, breathtaking. “Yes,” he managed around his laughter. “Yes, I suppose he is.”

She eyed him sulkily. It hadn’t been
that
funny. “If I ever meet him, I’m going to punch him in the face.”

“I’d pay to see that.”

“We could sell tickets and make it a pay-per-view event.”

He chuckled. “Now you’re thinking like a businesswoman.”

The waitress returned with a basket of tortilla chips and a bowl of salsa—and broke the last of the tension between them, leaving behind a companionable peace. Stephanie immediately rooted around until she found the biggest chip in the basket, with the perfect curve for scooping. Derek eyed her.

“You like those?”

“Who doesn’t? Especially with hot salsa.”